The house remembers.

  It once lived in the land that it now sat atop of, sleeping in the eons of earth and rock as time immortal passed above it with rising suns, the slow crawl of stars, and the movements of their parent world Unudo. It was awoken a few times, jostled like an unwilling pet as farmers dug at it with hoes, later tractors, and now awakened in its seemingly final form.

  Its first owner was quite an eccentric noble with pockets filled with far more silver than sense in their skulls; ordering the construction of this mansion based on their own travels to an Imperium north of here. How they spared no expense to hire a Central Ensolian architect to oversee the construction of this humble, yet absurdly out of place mansion in what was predicted to be a wondrous vacation locale.

  Under her careful eye the house came to life: from her near bottomless checkbook came shipments of old growth redwoods from the Honger State, polished quartz from the open mines of Burubei, and flora from the foreign Capital Valley Provinces; from her connections came imperial immigrant workers from Sanji; and from the earth came the loci of the home.

  It liked this house, despite it being so different from its compatriots in the nearby town it took pride in its uniqueness. A mansion fit for someone of noble standing, one that was nothing like anything this earth had seen before. And as the final locks were placed into its gigantic oaken doors, the last coatings painted upon the wrought iron fences, and the straggling workers went and returned home; it waited.

  And waited.

  And waited.

  Its owner had, as the world whispered quietly, planned to come see the place many times. Even going so far as to board a carriage bound from Yunclair, but was quickly turned back due to extenuating circumstances.

  It was the midst of the First Stygian War, and the owner had their own duties in the Grand Adranic Fleet. With fighting spilling into the Adranic Ocean, the demands made of this noble-commander were endless; and in the end, the house listened as the sea current sang a swan song of how the owner’s frigate struck a magnetic mine, and how they slowly drowned in the cold, vast abyss.

  The house was traded for a while between the many families: noble siblings to perhaps even a merchant commoner or two as the century slowly blurred by. But yet, none of its owners actually visited.

  The staff did come on occasion, servants hired from the locale maintaining a frayed curtain here and there, keeping the roof repaired with fresh layers of tar and tile, and manicuring the gardens with deft skill. But yet, the house was missing the pleasure of visitation; of company kept by an actual ownership.

  Until she came.

  Riding aboard an incredible new technology called the “motor carriage” and alongside a contingent of royal guards; the woman came with such a gentleness that the house itself was immediately pulled towards her.

  Her smooth and beautiful face, long black hair that fell to her waist, and a thin body that was swelling in the most unusual places.

  The house gleamed with pride as she marveled at its vast interiors; hungrily perused its stocked library, and fell in love with its gardens. For the first time in its century and thirty years of life, the house had a purpose — an understanding of what it was always meant to be.

  She’s here for her own safety. The thunder spoke to the house in the distant storm clouds, relaying a message from the city-spirit of Landfall. She is dearly loved by a king here. She is loved enough for him to suffer through his isolation alone.

  The house watched through the days and weeks as something changed within her; how her body was shifting its own priorities towards something more. It had watched, in its time alone, flocks of birds laying eggs on the nooks and crannies of its roof, or how a family of squirrels were born and raised amongst the ancient oaks of its garden. And now, with this owner here, the house watched as she herself grew something more within her.

  The house felt the sickness as the woman’s body disgorged meals mid-digestion, feeling pain as the woman weakly struggled to even get up from the old cedar rocking chair — requiring the assistance of one of her maids to stand atop swollen legs and feet.

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  But the house felt that joy as well; listening as she quietly spoke to the child growing inside her of the joys of this world, listening as she limped through the gardens on her daily walks and quietly sang beautiful, ancient songs that carried through the ocean breeze.

  The house watched the suns and Unudo draw paths across the horizon, calculating the long months that passed by as it saw her stomach swell with pregnancy.

  Child, cursed child. Some voice, a spirit brought from the prophetic randomness of the crashing sea waves, whispered accusingly at the small lump of flesh. Better to die now! Cursed with life! See fire, cities burning! Sky demons returning with fire! See many die for him, against him – because of him!

  And the other spirits listened. Brought together by the ramblings, they came prepared to sever this life; from smallest adjustments of proteins to suffocate the developing brain with an overflow of amniotic fluid, to even the most dramatic of miscarriages brought upon the fetus.

  But the house had, in its absurdity, come to love its owner and this new life. Seduced by her soft spoken words, her longing songs and gentlest of touches; the house, like a falcon mother tearing apart the snake that would dare invade its nest, brought forth its protective energies within the unnatural foci of forged steel pipes, refined ceramics, coils of electrical wiring, and even a fanciful product called ‘plastic’ that dissolved these attacking spirits like some candle of living wax brought to a blast furnace.

  Horrified, the surviving minds left — not spewing insults at this house but instead expressing the horror at what it had done; at a genocide it would willingly have played a part in.

  But the house didn’t care: it had done its job without a single disturbance to even the most sickly of servants within.

  And it continued to watch as she reached the final stages, how her abdomen swelled to unnatural size and how each breath she took felt like it was being crushed by some monster on her chest.

  And for her duties, she bid a quiet farewell to this house; to return back home for the birth of what was her son (the house had taken a small, curious peek; it hoped that this was alright in the grander scheme of things).

  And for a while, the house waited in anticipation. Once this was all said and done, she could return after all; holding the product of life within her hands, bundled in cloth and gurgling with infant joy.

  The house wondered what she would name him, what he would look like as the slow months, and years would come to pass. And the house waited and waited, listening to the small whispers of the ocean spirits, the loud screams of the seasonal shifts, and even the moans of the small woodland forest it straddled.

  And when the next thunderstorm came from the south (rare as they were), the house hungrily listened for any news from the spirit of Landfall.

  She died. The word came with such darkness the House was shocked, thinking it a poor joke from the grand mind. The child became lodged in her calcium skeleton, a rare and most awful circumstance; dooming mother and child both to the slow death. But she, in her bravery and love, made a decision. They tore into her while she lived, severing arteries and bone as she screamed in pain. They took the child from her as she turned cold, as her lifeblood splattered onto the operation bed.

  The message-spirit paused for a long time, the lightning striking the sea and booming thunder echoing across the plains of the coast. She was happy, because she got to hold her son.

  The House supposed that was it.

  And, in its moment to moment pondering of this strange feeling, decided to rest for a while.

  It slept, barely aware to any of the changes as the weeks, months, and years passed by in solitude; it dreamt as the people of the small town watched their sons and daughters march to war, and quietly snored as the people struggled gently with hunger from a vast famine.

  Blissfully unaware of its own happenings, assuming that whatever owner had come across it would take care of it; a comatose patient at the mercy of its next of kin. It was not happy in this state, but being in the dimness of unawareness was perhaps better than processing the emotions of what was occurring in raw reality.

  And it was, in this unsleeping state, quite content before being stirred by the demon that came down from the sky.

  The house could feel the horror held within the jumbled amalgamation of powerful half-spirits of the most ancient origins; its own forbearers chained and confined in the heart of the monster, screaming and thrashing with an awful racket like rabid animals breaking teeth upon steel cages.

  Blinking awake, the House watched as its passengers disembarked; watched and listened as four souls stepped off the steel of this abomination and…

  BEHOLD THE SON OF A MURDERED MOTHER. The oceanic soul screamed, blinding light into the ears of the House as it pointed at the young man. BEHOLD THE SOUL THAT YOU PROTECTED. COME AND WITNESS THE ATROCITIES THAT SHALL BE DONE IN HIS NAME. GO DELIGHT IN THE HORROR THAT YOU WILL HAVE WROUGHT.

  The House watched, now quite awake, at this new pair; taking the name of that child deep into its spirit.

  His name was Zai.